


I'm About to Go

by butwithspikes



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Blow Jobs, Consort Dean Winchester, Evil Sam Winchester, Hair Kink, Hurt Dean Winchester, Jealous Sam Winchester, M/M, Non-Consensual Oral Sex, Oral Sex, SPN Kink Meme, Sam Winchester's Demonic Powers, Supernatural AU: King of Hell Sam and Consort Dean, Top Sam
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-10-04
Updated: 2013-10-04
Packaged: 2017-12-28 10:40:13
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,463
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/991073
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/butwithspikes/pseuds/butwithspikes
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>He hates the slow slide of honeyed fingers in his hair. He hates the way the longer hairs at the back of his neck brush the leather collar Sam has him wear when they have visitors. He hates being Sam's little pet. He hates the way the demon Captain watches Sam pet his hair, almost as much as hates Sam petting his hair in the first place. (Fill for spnkink_meme prompt requesting Evil!Sam/Dean, long haired Dean, and non-con hair stroking.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	I'm About to Go

**Author's Note:**

> Story title from ["HAM" by Jay Z/Kanye West (aka The Throne) because evil!Sam would go hard as a motherfucker.](http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=WyaGLR0Q65E)

The fringe clings to Dean's sweat, trapping it in his hair and against his temple. It itches. His finger slip slides against his skin when he pushes the strand behind his ear. 

Another finger, blunt and calloused, scented sweet with blood and wine, trails through the damp hair on the other side of his face, tucks the twin strand behind his other ear. In the humid, plush jungle heat, Dean shivers. 

"So pretty with your hair tucked in like that." Sam's voice is light, expression fond and dark with fathomless hunger. "You look like an elf," he continues, laughing softly and to himself. Dean wrinkles his nose as Sam runs his fingertips over the tips of Dean's ears. "So soft, kitten."

Then fingertips slide through his hair as Sam continues to speak soft and soothing. Fingernails scrape his scalp, chilling, comforting. It's a balm against the sweltering heat, against the occasional throb which pulses through Dean's skull to the tips of his hair, the aftermath of Sam dragging him by the strands through the damp floor. Tears and sweat had stung his eyes and he'd dug what was left of his jagged fingernails into Sam's wrists. His little display hadn't done more than make the monster - the monster he made out of his own little brother, he made, his fault, always his own damn fault - sigh in feigned irritation and adjust the hard cock in his loose pants. 

The fingers scratching through his hair - petting him like the sick, pathetic pet he is - shift, tangle in the strands, angle his head. He clenches his jaw but doesn't try to yank himself from the hold. If he manages to slide out from Sam's grip, it will be with clumps of his hair and skin and bone hanging from cruel iron fingers. Whatever Sam's about to take from him won't be anything Sam hasn't taken before. It won't be anything worth losing his head over. 

"Knew it," Sam is saying, smug but light with a breeze of reverence that makes Dean's constant nausea roll slick in his stomach. "Your eyes really are the color of koa trees."

Dean closes his eyes. He wishes he could close his ears, his heart. He'd cut it out himself if it would stop the heady stream of praises and threats and endearments that fall like steam from Sam's bloody lips. 

Sighing heavily, Sam says, "I thought you'd like Hawaii."

Knowing where they are - Earth, the United States (it still counts as the U.S., Dean thinks), Hawaii - grounds Dean into the soft earth beneath his knees. It calms him to know, at least, what dimension and continent he's in. 

"Like it more if there was a pig with one of those apples in it's mouth," Dean mutters. Sam smiles, the small, soft one he used - uses - when he and Dean shared a private joke. Something just for them, something special no one else would understand. It's part of what got them in this fucking mess in the first place - Dean, Dean's what got them in this fucking mess, what got Sammy... Flinching, Dean unwisely adds, "And some hula girls."

Predictably, Sam's expression darkens.

It's become more and more difficult for Dean to find the courage, the strength - coward, weakling - for defiance. He used to fight. He used to spit on Sam's dirt and flesh encrusted boots, on his damning mouth. He used to plot, to dream, of escape, of overthrowing the demons, of saving what was left of Sammy's soul. Now his defiance comes in the forms of lowly muttered sarcasm and jabs aimed at the only weakness Sam has left: his heated, possessive, all consuming...whatever it is he feels for his brother. Dean can't quite call it love, or need. Desire is closer but not as dark or deep or cruel as what Sam shows him. 

"Man," Dean continues. He knows he's angling for pain and humiliation and pleasure - which is the sharpest pain, the harshest humiliation, of anything Sam whips against him. But it's been weeks since he's so much as flinched in the status quo. He's getting too soft. He blames the fucking hair; there must be something in downy strands that change their roots when they hit the collar bone, something that turns men from warriors to wusses. "Grass skirts, those little coconut bras..." 

He trails off with an appreciative noise. When he opens his eyes, he winks into the thundering expression on Sam's face. 

Nails dig into his skin, fingers twirl his hair in a painful grip. He raises his chin, baring his throat, feels his skin and throat stretch too thin and tight; feels Sam's gaze oil slick, blood black, heavy as Sam's body lying hot on top of his, trail down the soft, exposed flesh. The fingers not in his hair trail slowly down his throat before sliding under the waistband of Sam's pants. 

Dean closes his eyes again, but only for a moment. 

"I take you on a romantic vacation," Sam hisses as he lowers his pants, frees his cock, hot flesh hard and curving against his abs, "and all you can ask is where's the food, where's the sluts." He shakes his head. 

"K-know what they say," Dean begins, but Sam yanks his head even further back, shoving his words gurgling and aching back to his chest. 

Then Sam's grip eases. His fingertips rub the pulsing pain in his skull. "You should be a better pet," he sighs. It's breathy, pleased, and Dean doesn't really have to have his eyes open to know Sam has wrapped his fingers around his own dick, is guiding it to the soft cradle of Dean's mouth. "Don't really deserve your treat, do you?"

Dean's said no before - he doesn't deserve, doesn't want it. He's better off begging for it. 

"Lucky I'm so good to you," Sam breathes. "Open up, pet. C'mon, pretty puppy, open up."

Fingers are gliding through his hair as he slides his lips open against the hot, flared head of Sam's cock. He spreads a trickle of pre-come with his mouth, sliding it over Sam's skin, over his own lips, as he cradles the head. He sucks soft, offers kittenish, reluctant licks to the slit and tastes another fresh glob of that heady liquid. Sam's palm smooths over the top of his head as he praises his pet, his pretty puppy, his pretty kitty, his good, sweet boy.

Dean doesn't know if he hates the words or the feeling of Sam's fingers tucking back his hair again more. It is the petting, though, more than the soft filth falling from Sam's mouth, that makes him feel the part of beaten, helpless, useless pet. 

Sam slides his hands until he's cradling the back of Dean's skull with one hot palm, easing more of his cock into Dean's mouth, and stroking the hair behind Dean's ear with the other. He starts scratching the soft patch of skin and petting the longer strands of hair falling over Dean's shoulder. Dean's energy is focused on being annoyed and enraged at the treatment until Sam's cock bumps the back of his throat. Luckily (he guesses) his gag reflex was fucked out of him months or years or centuries ago, he doesn't fucking know, because good pets train themselves to fit their masters, not the other way around. 

"Fuck," Sam swears softly as Dean obediently swallows his dick. "Always so good, every time. Never - guh, never gonna get tired of this, pet. Never gonna stop loving how sweet you suck me."

The words make Dean want to bite, hard, and ask how long Sam's gonna love that through his mouthful of blood. He doesn't, though. Sam told him exactly what would happen if Dean used his teeth the first time - not threatening, just stating fact - but he wouldn't have done it anyway. He still can't hurt Sam. Not when it's his fault that Sam ascended the dark throne in the first place. Not when he's sure - he's sure - there's still something left of Sammy inside the suit that's torched the world and fashioned Dean into a pampered pet. 

An ache is blooming in the sharpest point of Dean's jaw. He woke Sam up lapping at his balls, swallowing them and holding them as they hung heavy against his tongue, and spent the plane ride from California on his knees with Sam's soft then hard then soft then hard then soft again dick so far down his throat his heart started beating in rhythm with the hungry pulse of it. He's fucking sore and he just wants Sam to come, to stop talking, to stop petting him. 

Determined, Dean ignores the soft, not wholly unpleasant chills moving gently up and down his spine as Sam strokes his hair. He concentrates on hollowing his cheeks, moving his tongue along the understand of Sam's cock while he swallows around the head. Sam makes a sound of bone deep pleasure. It doesn't drown out the bird or insect songs, earthy and calming as they buzz inside of Dean's skin. Dean tries to lose himself in the rhythm of his mouth sliding up and down Sam's cock and the jungle symphony. 

Sam comes with a sharp cry, fingers pulling at Dean's hair in a grip just this side of painful, hips pushing Dean's nose into the rough curls of his pubic hair. Dean swallows while Sam pants and pats his head. 

"Such a good pet," Sam says breathlessly. "Such a good boy for me, taking your treat so well." He strokes through Dean's hair one more time before Dean feels the phantom buzz of Sam's power against his body, lifting him from the ground into Sam's waiting arms. "Let's see if we can set you up that luau, huh?"

Like the good pet he is, Dean buries his face into Sam's neck. He doesn't know what this version of Sam's version of a luau is going to be, but he sends his silent apologies to whatever life is still managing to breathe on this little island. He's sure his earlier quips have destroyed it. 

-

The island, the jungle, the birds and insects that sung Dean through his pain, the people - oh God those people, all those people, not one of them Dean could save, all of those people - are still burning as their jet takes off.

-

An indeterminable amount of time after their 'vacation' - indeterminable to Dean, at least - a group of Captains from the Middle East force are kneeling at Sam's feet. Their headquarters are a citadel in what Dean thinks may be, or may have been, Dubai, but he actually has no legitimate idea. He saw a map of Sam's strongholds once, when he managed to sneak from the crate he'd been boarded up in for punishment. It had taken up three walls. Dean had been so overwhelmed he'd just fallen to his knees, unable to breathe or read the maps or do anything fucking useful. All he'd done was sob until he felt his throat rupture. His lips were bloody when Sam found him. 

Sam hadn't even put him back in the crate. He'd just gathered Dean in his lap, petting his hair, cooing at him, until he'd calmed enough to be taken to bed. 

It wasn't exactly the day Dean had given up, but it was the day Dean realized even if he did escape Sam's hands, join the resistance, the most he could hope for was a fighting death for himself and the humans still rebelling. 

Dean can't help thinking of that day now. He's coddled in Sam's lap again, sitting obedient and still under Sam's affections again, barely breathing under the steel crushing understanding of how deeply the world is fucking fucked. 

His eyes drifted closed between the first and third Captain's reports. Sam made a soft noise when he did, nudged his nose against Dean's cheek, and Dean had been tempted to glare through his lashes and keeps his attention wide and bright through the meeting. He'd just sighed. He'd just let his head rest against Sam's chin. The minuscule defiance wasn't worth the pain the meeting would lash through Dean's mind. He can't bare the stories of the rebellion's failure, of the rebels punishments. 

"Is there a problem, Amon?"

Sam's carefully controlled voice, the cold, serpent coil of rage Dean can sense in it, draws his attention. He opens eyes. He glances at his brother first, then follows Sam's narrowed gaze to a trembling vessel at the end of the line of Captains. 

Swallowing, the demon twitches a nervous glance to his fellow soldiers. Their eyes, beetle black, remain on the floor. 

"N-no, my Lord," the demon answers. 

Sam tilts his head. "Really? You seem to be having some difficult paying attention to the report." Voice darkening, sending a cold twitch through Dean's spine, Sam continues. "My consort seems to have drawn your eye."

Dean flinches at the word - consort, almost worse than pet, because it makes Dean feel like a whore and betrayer instead of just a pitiful piece of shit. The fingers sliding through his hair increase their pressure. It makes the petting more pleasurable instead of less. There is no pain as nails drag soothing heat and comforting chills from his skull to the nape of his neck. He wishes there was. Blood and screams would be far preferable to the drowsy, lazy rolls Sam's petting sends through him. At least he could fight, find some ferocity and fangs in his pained rage, instead of sink into honeyed fingers. 

He hates the slow slide of them in his hair. He hates the way the longer hairs at the back of his neck brush the leather collar Sam has him wear when they have visitors. He hates being Sam's little pet. He hates the way the demon Captain watches Sam pet his hair, almost as much as hates Sam petting his hair in the first place. 

"My apologies, my King. I - I did not mean to - to look at him."

"Look at him?" Sam chuckles, low, and his other hand slides from where it had been resting over Dean's heart to Dean's stomach. His palm rubs a soothing circle over Dean's bare, warm skin. "Now you were doing a little more than looking, weren't you Amon? You seemed quite captivated. Almost...covetous." 

With the next slide of Sam's fingers through his hair, Dean knows he's about to see Amon's essence ripped from his vessel and ripped to ebony dripped shreds. 

Sam's followers are required to respect their King's consort, to bow to him, to speak to him only in revered greetings. They are allowed to acknowledge the strength of their King's consort, the passion he inspires within their King. They are even allowed to acknowledge the consort's beauty. No one, no matter their place on the food chain, is allowed to want Dean. No one is allowed to think about him. No one is allowed tocovet the King's most precious treasure. 

The first meeting Sam had flayed the human layers - skin muscle bone - from a demon who'd had the audacity to imagine Dean in its lap, Dean's hair under its fingers, Dean had begged for mercy. The demon had been buried in the body of a 10-year-old boy, eyes bright blue when they weren't bleeding black. Dean had pleaded for the boy's life then the boy's death, anything to spare an innocent child from Sam's ravenous, jealous cruelty. Sam had just slide the gag Dean had hated so much in the beginning into his mouth and petted his hair while the demon screamed. 

"No!" the demon cries. It should know, Dean thinks, that it signed it's own death warrant the moment it looked at Dean and let itself want. "No, I - I wasn't, I swear, my King, I would never, the precious consort is yours, only yours, and I would never - "

"That's right," Sam says smoothly. His voice is a coo, soft and warm, coated in summer sweetness. It's for Dean's comfort. It's to soothe the nerves of Sam's skittish pet. Dean squares his jaw. "Isn't he, pet? You are mine. Aren't you?"

Sam is rubbing their cheeks together, palm moving in circles over Dean's stomach, fingers petting through Dean's hair. Dean's teeth ache with how badly he wants to say no, with how badly he wants that no to be true. 

But he is Sam's, whether he likes it or not - whether he really, really, really fucking does not like it. He's Sam's consort, Sam's pet, Sam's plaything, Sam's punching bag: anything Sam wants him to be because there's no one to stop him. Especially not Dean. 

So Dean takes a shuddering breath and says, "Yes. I'm yours."

The noise Sam makes is almost innocent in its pure joy. There is only happiness and pleasure in the purred rumble, only affection and adoration in the way it spills across Dean's skin as Sam nuzzles then kisses his throat. When Sam speaks again, Dean almost expects it to be in that light, eager tone Sammy used to use when he found a dog willing to play with him. 

"Yeah," Sam murmurs, low and happy. "You're mine. My pretty pet, huh? My precious consort?"

"Yes," Dean answers again. 

Sam scratches Dean's belly before bringing his hand to Dean's hair, carding both hands through the lengths, spreading pleasure and loathing and helpless disgust with every touch. 

"And we don't like arrogant little piss ants thinking you could be anything but mine, do we?"

Swallowing against the bile rising hot in this throat, Dean shakes his head. He worries for a moment that Sam will make him speak, use his words instead of his movements - because if Dean doesn't want to use his voice Sam can take it away - but Sam just rubs his nose into Dean's hair while he continues petting him. 

"No, we don't." Sam kisses the nape of Dean's neck and finally, fucking finally, turns his attention to the trembling demon Captain. "See, Amon, it's not just me. I know you've thought I was too possessive, not sharing my pretty pet with my soldiers, but you don't seem to understand he doesn't want to be shared. He's my consort. Mine. He likes being mine." He laughs, then, dark and deep as the Hell inside of him. "Do you really think he'd want something like you after being owned by a god?"

Amon shakes his head but Dean can see the anger lurking hot in his gaze. 

Sam must see it, too, because he never misses anything, not these days. Tar smoke is yanked from the vessel's bones a moment later. It fills the room, black and thick and posionous, and Dean does feel like a god damn pet with the whimper that wants to make its way through his throat as the smoke moves towards him. He's weak and pathetic and sick, wouldn't even know what to do if the smoke touched him because he hasn't fought in what feels like a mellenia. The fear that makes him flinch in his own skin is almost the worst of his new place at Sam's feet. 

One of Sam's forearms slides around his middle, holding him firm, while Sam sweeps his other hand in front of them. With a few muttered words and an awesome flash of power, the remnants of the demon bursts into oil thick flames, then disippates completely. No trace of it but the stentch of a rotten soul. 

"Shh," Sam whispers. His hand immediately goes back to Dean's hair, petting, soothing. Dean wants to fucking bite it off. "S'okay, pet, s'okay. Not gonna let anything hurt you, remember? You're mine. My perfect pet." He squeezes Dean's middle. "Always gonna take care of you."

Dean digs his fingers into the cold gold of the throne arm. He hates how Sam treats him like some sort of shaking poodle, how Sam cradles him like he's a skittish kitten afraid of its own reflection. It's not as if Sam is wrong, though: he's barely even a man, now, the way he heels at Sam's feet and sits in Sam's lap, the way he gets hand fed and petted through meetings and negotiations and nights at home, the way he shivers and shudders and whimpers under Sam's ownership. 

"Now that's taken care off..." 

Sam trails off expectantly. The fourth Captain clears his throat and resumes his own report. 

Dean closes his eyes again. His brother begins using both hands to pet him again, and he squeezes his eyes tigheter shut, until flashes of color are dancing behind them. He falls into the sharp bursts of shape and color, and lets himself ignore the way his head tilts into the pressure of Sam's fingers.


End file.
